Mind vs Sanity
by Catchy Pen Name
Summary: The war was hardest on some people. Darkness succumbs them, they aren’t like they once were. The brink of insanity is an interesting place to be.


**A/N:** As I was writing this story, I had one set idea for it in my head. But by the time I reached the end, I realized that I had ended up writing about a totally _different_ idea. This second idea I got from a excellent book, "Girl, Interrupted" by Susana Kaysen, which I referenced to as I wrote this. It's a bloody brilliant book, the movie is also very very good. I suggest them.

And thanks to Abbey and Liv for reading this over, they're great. And P.S. I'm looking for a beta, so if anyone is good in this field, and wants to lend their services, e-mail/review/IM me.

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**Mind vs. Sanity**

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She sniffed. She had been crying for a long time, but she was trying to stop. Trying really, really hard. She blinked her swollen eyes a few times, then dug her fists into her eyelids, trying to rub the tears away. But when she looked up at me her face was red as ever, and she knew it. She sniffed again.

The aftermath, as people often said, was the hardest part. While whatever bad thing that happened was happening, you don't have the time to fully process it, you're too caught up in the moment to look around and take in what's going on around you. But after everything's done, after the moment had passed, you have time to think, to look around, to register everything until you've gone over it a million times in your head, memorized every second of it. But that's never done any good. Because even after you've gone over it a million times in your head, the feeling never goes away. It just gets stronger and deeper as you continue to reanalyze everything, looking for what you did wrong. And once you find it, you can't stop punishing yourself over it. Because if you hadn't made that one mistake, if you hadn't done whatever you did, everything would be fine. The sky would be blue, the grass would be green, the world would keep spinning. But because you did that one wrong thing, the world stopped. Nothing looks right anymore; the sky's blue but you can't focus on its precise shade, you can't accurately measure its distance like you used to. One minute it looks so far away you can barely see it, the next it's in your face. And the grass isn't like it used to be. One minute you're seven feet tall, looking down at the ground, the next you're three, with the blades so close you can count them. Sometimes the grass is so green your eyes hurt, and you have to blink a few times and look at something else. And this is all happening because of what you did. You're being punished, this is all happening because you weren't strong enough, or fast enough, or you just weren't there when you were suppose to. You had your chance to make sure everything would be better, and you blew it. The world is distorted and unfamiliar because you screwed up. You deserve this.

She sniffed again. Louder, this time. And hard. So hard she coughed. Then she stopped coughing, and she was silent for a few seconds, in thought, and then her eyes started watering again, doing nothing for her bloodshot eyes except making them redder. Her hair was a mess—usual bushy curls now limp and greasy, with a knot at the back of her head. It hung in her eyes. No matter how hard she pushed them aside they kept falling back, covering her face like a mask, protecting her from the world. She was paler, too. Noticeably. She tanned easily enough, and it was weird seeing her so fair. She looked breakable, almost. Fragile, weak, in need of someone to look after her. Because who can look after themselves when their eyes are filled with tears constantly and can't focus on even what's being held in front of her face? She was frail, powerless, perched delicately on her chair like she's afraid she'd break it if she put too much weight on it. This had been going on for awhile. And in a twisted way, I was used to it.

I placed my arm around her thin shoulders, barely putting any weight on her. Her shoulders were too thin and I could see her bones. She was unhealthy—she herself knew it—but when I offered her some of my mum's beef stew she would shake her head vigorously, with more emotion I'd seen from her in awhile. She always won that fight. I'd lower my raised bowl with a sigh and she'd turn away from me, to resume staring into space and trying not to cry. She'd eat, but never with me there. I'd hear her creaking down the stairs at two in the morning and getting herself some leftovers. One time I snuck down after her, and caught her eating in the dark. I sent up a small prayer for her, and crept back to my room. I was beginning to pray more than I ever had—I'd catch myself unconsciously praying for myself, or someone, or something. Because even if God didn't exist, there was no point in not trying. Because the chance that He might was too great for me to pass up; the small chance of someone—or some_thing_—greater than us and making everything better was something I could barely comprehend, and welcomed it all too gratefully. Hope was the one thing we all needed—the one thing _anyone_ needs in a time of pain, and for awhile it was all I had to cling on to. For about a year after it happened I was still waiting for that magical epiphany that would knock on my door and make everything perfect in one single breathe. Because at that time that was the only thing that made sense to me, aside from the knowledge of what had happened.

But this was before I got some sense knocked into me; this was before I could get out of bed without the internal battle of whether or not to just stay put. Because what bad things could happen to you in bed? Monsters in the closet, maybe a nightmare or two, but no _real_ damage. And that can appeal to anyone.

No, this was when the only thing any of us knew was sorrow. And regret. And pain. And every other negative emotion you could think of. Because the perfect world we had lived in was ruined, never to be like it was again, and we all knew that.

My arm had still been around her shoulders. She had leaned into me, but I hadn't noticed. I tightened my grip around her, but only slightly. It felt good to have her there. Because at that time she was the one person I needed more than anyone. She had been there, she saw everything I saw, and that was bittersweet. I was glad that I had someone else who knew what I was feeling—or at least something close to what I was feeling—but I was sad that _she_ had to see it. Her, of all people. I would have done anything to take away everything she was feeling, even if that meant giving it all to me. Because that's how I felt back then, I loved her. I still love her, but it's hard to love a walking ghost.

A lot had changed since the final battle. We all expected everything to turn out fine; it was a bit of a shock when reality kicked in. Yes, Voldemort had been defeated, but what good did that do us? By that time he was too weak to do anything, even come back again. Harry practically gave his life for us, all of us, and now he was stuck in a secure ward in St. Mungo's. The last good sign we got was that his eyes focused on objects placed in front of him. It meant that he was improving; slowly climbing out of the vegetative state he had been stuck in for the past month.

Harry had been fortunate. His fate was spared; somehow he survived, even if survival meant ending up being strapped down to a bed, having all mealsforce-fed to you and being treated like a toddler. His brain was mush, a jumbled mess of darkness, constricting his mind to its simplest terms. We all knew from the first time we saw him he wasn't getting better. Memories of hearing his voice was a treat, something I knew I could never forget. Because the chance that I might never hear it again was out there.

Others weren't so fortunate. The war's destructive path was larger and more frightening than we ever could have imagined. We were stunned to see how many of us had fallen. The death list climbed: Seamus, Colin and Dennis, Ernie, Padma, Cho, Luna, Neville (he died a hero's death), Malfoy, Crabbe (Goyle's whereabouts are still unknown), Hagrid, Flitwick, Sprout, Percy, Fred… two of my own brothers gone. Gone. Really, really gone. We all knew they weren't coming back. I think it hit Ginny the hardest; she always was the softie in the family. Now I don't know what to call her, she doesn't look like my sister anymore. My sister had once been joyous, exciting, curious, a fireball; this Ginny was small, quiet, unwilling to take up more space than she had to. She would stand tightly, limbs squeezed in, maybe wishing she could compress herself into a tiny ball that no one could see. Then she could float away, fly high above our house, maybe fly to heaven and see our brothers. That was all she wanted.

When I told her about Harry she didn't move. I think she stopped breathing for a minute or two. The grief of Harry's state surrounded her, reminding her that everything really was lost. But she never showed it. She didn't like people after that; she took Hermione's cue and started eating alone, in the middle of the night, so she didn't have to sit at the dining room table with the rest of us. She even decided she didn't want to see Harry. She never once visited him at St. Mungo's.

While others succumbed to darkness and depression, I fought it. Does that make me stronger? No. It was my fault that Harry was like this, anyway; I should have been protecting him instead of checking Neville's pulse. I knew Neville had died but I still didn't leave him. I stayed there, kneeled on the ground, holding Neville's hand. But I shouldn't have done that; I should have been with Harry, and I wasn't. The sky isn't blue and the grass isn't green because of me. I know that, and I accepted it

I was in a state of almost hopelessness for awhile, but the point is I got out. I didn't let sadness completely engulf me because I had other things on my mind. My _mind_, actually. My mind and my brain, that's what I was thinking of, concentrating on, instead of the horror going on around me. Because they had two totally different concepts to the same idea—the aftermath of the war. My brain told me to move on, fate is fate, I did nothing wrong, I can't change the future just because I think I messed up. But my mind told me otherwise. That's where the sky/grass theory was born. Maybe I was crazy, I dunno. If someone told me I was crazy back then I would have believed them. I still will, actually. My mind and brain were battling each other, each trying to convince me they were right. The internal dialogue was becoming too much to handle.

**Mind:** If only you had been there…  
**Brain: **There's nothing you could have done, don't be stupid.  
**Mind: **But you could have been there.  
**Brain:** That would still change nothing. This is Lord Voldemort we're talking about, you're too inferior.  
**Mind:** But he was weak, you could have taken him on. But you weren't there.  
**Brain:** Stop saying that.  
**Mind:** You could have changed fate!  
**Brain: **There is no such thing as fate. What happens happens. If you had been there chances are you would have ended up like Harry. Consider yourself lucky.  
**Mind:** I still think you could have done something.  
**Brain:** You do that. But remember, you gave it your all, you exceeded your expectations. Stop putting yourself down.  
**Mind: **You deserve it. You blew your chance, big guy. I still think you could have done something.  
**Brain:** You do that.

But whether or not I could have done something, what happened happened. After awhile I was able to accept that fact, and actually start to move on with my life. And I know this is going to sound cliché, but I really did start to appreciate how short and unassuming life is, and I figured I'd be dumb to waste mine. My brain won in that argument.

So all in all I guess you could say I recovered. I'm now able to go almost an entire day without thinking about Harry strapped down to his bed, Ginny staying locked in her room, Hermione's bony shoulders. I got better, I'm recovering. I'm glad my sensibility was able to override the craziness in my head; otherwise I could have ended up like everyone else. My brain overrode my mind, sanity prevailed over dream. I consider myself lucky, I could have turned out crazy. I almost was, too. The brink of insanity is an interesting place to be.

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And I quote Liv: "This whole bit is like a mass of emotion..." I agree. But I was a bit concerned about how this flowed... didn't know if it all fit or made sense or not. Opinions? Good or bad, I'll take 'em.

And there might be more chapters of this, in other people's points of view, like Ginny and Hermione. And I really hope you all know that was Ron.

**Review!**


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